


Unrequited and Interrupted

by thewightknight



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-09 18:37:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4359977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewightknight/pseuds/thewightknight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pietro Trevelyan doesn't seem to be able to move on after Commander Cullen declares himself unable to return his affections, until he meets a certain Grey Warden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Promise

**Author's Note:**

> And here I am obsessing over another somewhat minor NPC. There will be sadness here, but also joy and love. I think there'll be about four or five chapters. We'll see how the words flow.

~Prologue~

_“I would value your friendship. I’m afraid I cannot offer more. I trust you’ll understand.”_

Pietro started keeping track of the number of times he was reminding himself of those words every day. Usually at least twice as he carefully did not stare at the Commander over the war table, another time or two more when they crossed paths in the courtyard, at least once per tankard if he passed a few hours at the Herald’s Rest, and approximately every five minutes during Varric’s damned game of Wicked Grace. 

_“I would value your friendship. I’m afraid I cannot offer more. I trust you’ll understand.”_

That should have been the end of it. While he couldn’t say he was entirely used to rejection, he had in the past always handled it gracefully. And he’d certainly never found himself mooning over someone for weeks afterwards. A few quick tumbles should cure him, he was sure, except he found he couldn’t bring himself to take the final steps that would land him in someone else’s bed. And so he pined from afar, while growing increasingly disgusted with himself for his inability to move on.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

**Crestwood**

Pietro was never going to bring Cassandra and Varric along on the same trip ever again. Their constant bickering set him to grinding his teeth. It was the icing on top of every other unpleasant thing that had happened since they’d set foot in Crestwood. Miserable place.

“Andraste’s flaming ashes! Won’t they ever stop?” he grumbled.

Dorian snickered. 

“Laugh away. You’ve only been listening to them do it for a few weeks. Give it another month or so and you’ll want to strangle them too.”

They couldn’t get to the smugglers’ cave where Hawke and his Warden friend were waiting fast enough. Pietro picked up the pace. If he kept the party moving fast enough, Varric wouldn’t have the breath for arguing. It was spiteful, he knew, but they’d been going at it non-stop for four days. He was going to have to figure out some way to make peace between those two, for his own sanity’s sake.

He didn’t realize the flaw in his plan until they reached the cave. Getting there meant bringing Cassandra face to face with Hawke, which reminded her again that Varric had lied to her about his knowledge of the man’s whereabouts. 

He practically dove into the cave, not waiting for the others to follow. The acoustics distorted his companions’ words as they trailed after him, muffled and deadened by the rock. Luckily there was only one passage to follow. The path led him to a wooden door that opened out into a cavern. As grateful as he’d been to leave his quarrelsome companions behind, he was forced to realize that forging on ahead might not have been the best idea, because when he entered the cavern he was greeted with a drawn sword.

Pietro could have introduced himself. There was no doubt this was Hawke’s Warden contact – the griffon emblazoned on his armor was a dead giveaway. He also could have waited the few seconds it would have taken for Hawke to join them. But his patience was worn thin and the man in front of him provided a convenient outlet for his temper. 

He feinted right, then lunged forward, deflecting the other’s sword along his vambrace and ducking inside his guard. Besides the element of surprise, he had both height and weight on the other, forcing him backwards. The man stumbled, starting to go down, but twisted somehow and Pietro found himself hitting the ground first, the other on top of him. 

“Stroud!” Hawke’s voice echoed through the cavern as he ran towards them. “It’s just us.” The Warden smirked. Pietro had a sudden hunch the man had also known who he was when he’d entered the cavern. “I see you’ve already met the Inquisitor.”

Stroud hadn’t made any motion to let him up yet. The words slipped out before Pietro could help himself. “So are you going to kill me or kiss me?” Stroud eyebrows shot up in response, and then he grinned. Hawke, who been about to speak again, inhaled wrong and started coughing. 

Stroud had the most extraordinary moustache. It was hard not to notice it, as their faces were inches apart. Pietro now wished he had said anything else or just kept his mouth shut altogether, because he was suddenly fixated on how that moustache would feel against his lips if the man did kiss him. A spark in Stroud’s eyes suggested he knew exactly what Pietro was thinking. He pushed himself up and off, rising to his feet and offering Pietro a hand.

“My apologies. I am at your service, Inquisitor.”

He let the man help him to his feet. Orlesian, by the accent. Strong grip. It was nearly impossible to make out what color his eyes might be in the dim light, but he thought they might be blue. Had Stroud held his hand longer than necessary? Business, he reminded himself. We’re here on business. 

“So, most of you Wardens disappear. Then I run into a darkspawn magister named Corypheus. Do you think the one might have something to do with the other?” Oh, that was smooth.

Stroud grimaced, all the teasing Pietro had sensed gone from his demeanor. He explained that he feared Corypheus was somehow influencing the Grey Wardens in Orlais, making them all believe they were close to dying. When he explained what the Calling was, Pietro shivered. It was too close to what he remembered, the only thing he remembered before escaping the Fade into the ruins of Haven. 

“So let me get this straight? All the Wardens think they’re dying? And so they’re not thinking straight?” He had a sinking feeling in his stomach. “That won’t go well.”

Stroud shook his head in agreement. The Wardens were gathering in the Western Approach, he said. He planned on traveling there, to scout out the tower in which they were gathering and learn more of their plans.

It was late in the afternoon now. “You’ll leave in the morning, then?” Pietro asked. When Stroud nodded, he made a suggestion. “You can return with us to Caer Bronach. You can restock your supplies, and the Inquisition can provide you with mounts and documents so you can stay at our outposts along the way.”

“That is a generous offer. Thank you.”

“No, that’s a self-serving offer. The sooner you find out more about this fake Calling and how the Wardens are planning on dealing with it, the sooner we can plan how to counteract it.”

“Fair enough.” Stroud made a shallow bow in his direction. “Lead on, Inquisitor.”

Cassandra and Varric seemed to have run out of things to squabble about finally, or at least had mutually decided to give each other a break, and everyone else incidentally as well. That left Pietro lots of spare attention to pay to Stroud as they traveled. His eyes were indeed blue, a steely shade complimented by the blue of his Warden armor. He moved with grace over the rough terrain, always scanning their surroundings as he went. 

On several occasions he caught Pietro’s eyes on him. He always smiled in return, an inviting expression that caused heat to pool in the base of his spine. The man would be leaving in the morning, he reminded himself, and there would be people who needed to talk him and reports that needed to be read once they reached the Keep. There wouldn’t be time to do any of the things he was contemplating. Well, not properly anyways, and this was a man he didn’t want to rush through things with. But it was nice, finally, to find interest in someone and to see that interest reciprocated. It had taken his mind off of …. He managed to not complete that thought and concentrated instead on the movement of the muscles in Stroud’s thighs as the man preceded him down the path.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

**Caer Bronach**

Even as exhausted as he was, Pietro couldn’t sleep that night. The air was thick and fetid, as water continued to evaporate from Old Crestwood and everything that had been moldering underwater was now moldering in open air. None of the rooms in the keep were yet fit for habitation. All the bedding had been filthy and the mattresses infested, so everyone was sleeping in tents in the courtyard. Finally he gave up staring at the canvas ceiling, threw on a loose shirt and pants and climbed up to the battlements. It became marginally less rank with elevation, and he caught a bit of a breeze, giving brief moments of relief from both the humidity and the stench. 

He heard footsteps approaching, a steady tread. He assumed it was a guard on patrol, and was surprised when Stroud’s voice sounded behind him.

“I think I would have preferred staying in my cave.”

“I think we should have stayed there with you,” Pietro agreed. “I’m almost tempted to flood it all again, now that the rift that was underneath it is closed.”

“You had to go through all that?” 

“Yes, and through hordes of undead too. See sunny Crestwood! Don’t mind all stinking mud, or the walking corpses. It’s just window dressing for the abandoned dwarven ruins crawling with demons.”

Stroud shuddered. “I didn’t think anything could be worse than the Deep Roads, but your descriptions make me reconsider.”

“I’ve been spared that experience, at least.” He flexed his left hand, rubbing the palm. “I’ll leave the Deep Roads to you Wardens. The rifts are bad enough.”

Stroud gestured at his hand. “Does it pain you?”

“Sometimes. It flares up when there’s an active rift nearby, and sometimes it aches for no good reason.”

“May I?” Pietro hesitated, then held out his hand. Stroud cupped it, tracing the palm with his thumb, and Pietro shivered, eyes half closing with the caress. When he opened them again, he found Stroud staring at him, smiling, re-igniting the spark that had smoldered since that first moment in the cavern. 

Stroud pulled at his hand and he yielded, allowing his hand to be raised, shivering as a kiss was placed on his palm and then another. Lips traveled down along his palm towards his wrist, and Stroud grazed the pulse point with his tongue. Each was the lightest of touches, a bare brush of mouth against skin, the tip of his tongue just tasting him. He never broke eye contact throughout, his gaze yet another caress, and yet with just these simple touches Pietro felt his heart racing. 

Pietro reached forward, cupping Stroud’s cheek, exploring the shape of his face, and Stroud leaned in to the touch, still clasping Pietro’s hand in his. When he ran his fingers through the close-cropped hair at the base of Stroud’s skull, he was pleased to see the other’s eyelids flutter in response.

He had no idea which of them had closed the remaining distance between them, or perhaps they’d each gravitated towards the other, but there was a hand on his hip and his other hand was wrapped around Stroud’s neck. Was it breath or breeze he felt, whispering through the scant space between their lips? The contrast enflamed him, the strong grip of his hands and the barest brush of his lips. Everything about this kiss was a promise, tantalizing, making him yearn for more. 

“Here now. There’s a place for canoodling and this isn’t it, you two!” The interruption was sudden, startling. They’d been so intent on each other they hadn’t heard the guard approaching. They broke away from each other, and turned as one to the soldier. As the moonlight fell on their faces, they heard the woman gulp audibly. “Inquisitor! Warden! I beg your pardon. I thought … that is … I ….” The poor woman lost her words entirely, stammering in embarrassment. 

Well, what did they expect, standing out in the open on the battlements like this? An interruption was inevitable. “Carry on, soldier,” he ordered, and she fled. He chuckled, felt Stroud shaking against him as the Warden laughed as well.

“It’s just as well,” Stroud said, regretful. “Our current sleeping arrangements are barely fit for sleeping, let alone anything else. And they’re not much more private than our current situation.”

“Perhaps when you return from scouting in the Approach?” He dared ask.

“I’ll count the days.” One more brush of lips, and Pietro made himself back away, hands dropping. They stared at each other for a heartbeat, or was it an eternity? Then Stroud bowed to him again, eyes never leaving his face, and turned, making his way to the stairs.

Damnit. He was never going to get to sleep now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, this is familiar,” he joked. “So are you going to kill me or ….”

**Skyhold**

It was almost a month before Pietro returned to Skyhold. There had been bandits and a dragon in Crestwood, and Red Templars and another dragon on the Storm Coast. He was battered and tired and sore. Salt had crusted in the creases of his clothing and itched on the skin underneath, and the heel of one of his boots was coming loose. As they passed through the gates of Skyhold, he let out a breath, relaxing for the first time in weeks. Each time they returned, the feeling of homecoming grew stronger. The fortress had a long history, shrouded in mystery, but for now it was theirs.

He wavered between going straight to the war room or sneaking up to his rooms for a quick bath and a change of clothes first, and opted for the former. If he reported in first, he could get it over with and spend the rest of the afternoon and evening relaxing.

So of course, when he walked into the war room, covered in sea salt and road dust and smelling of who-knows-what, it was to find Stroud and Hawke deep in conversation with his advisors. Greetings washed over him and he responded automatically, trying not to stare but unable to help stealing glances. Their journey had been a hard one, if Hawke’s appearance was any indicator, gaunt and with dark shadows under his eyes. Stroud looked less worn, but that could be attributed to the legendary Grey Warden stamina. 

Josephine had been speaking to him, he realized, turning his attention back to the business at hand. They’d obviously been at it for several hours, judging from the plates and bottles strewn across the edges of the war table and the new markers on the map. They filled him in on the details. Stroud had found the Wardens at an old fortress in the Western Approach. What they were doing there, he hadn’t yet determined, but he meant to return and find out.

“Hopefully with reinforcements?” he finished, looking up from the table and meeting Pietro’s gaze again.

“We have reports of Venatori in the Western Approach as well. It would be wise to investigate their activities,” Leliana said.

Pietro sighed inwardly. It would have been nice to have more than a day or two at Skyhold before heading out again. He managed a reasonable approximation of a grin and responded, “Well, then. No rest for the wicked. How soon before we can be ready to leave?” 

“We have scouts already heading to the area. I sent them as soon as these initial reports came in.” Leliana shuffled through a stack of parchments, pulling out one and placing it on the top of the pile. “They should have reached the Approach already and set up a preliminary camp. They’ll have a survey ready for you upon your arrival.”

Cullen added, “I’ll put a roster together and alert the quartermaster. You should be able to head out the day after tomorrow.”

Two days of hot food and baths. He’d take it. 

Josephine escorted Stroud and Hawke out, and Pietro couldn’t help but watch them leave, catching Stroud’s eye one final time before the door closed. When he turned back to the table, he saw Leliana watching, a speculative twinkle in her eye. He returned the look with a grin.

When Josie returned, Pietro gave them all the rundown of his last few weeks, and they broke up shortly thereafter. As he was leaving, Leliana asked him to stay a moment, and after the others had gone she pulled another piece of parchment out from her collection, beginning to read.

“Jean-Marc Stroud. Originally from Ghislain. He was in training at the _Academie des Chevaliers_ until his family fell to the Game, and was recruited by the Wardens shortly thereafter. From all accounts, he is a good man.” She paused, looked down, shuffled papers seemingly at random, then looked up again. “You should know, he has been a Grey Warden for many years.”

It took him a moment to catch on to what she was implying. “How many years?” he asked.

“Twenty six,” she said. The concern was evident in her eyes, as well as the shadow of a larger worry.

“You know, we have this huge network of spies and agents at our disposal. I’m sure we could get him a message.” He didn’t have to say who he meant by “he.” He was surprised she hadn’t already tracked the Hero of Ferelden down, but with the dedication she showed he was sure she didn’t want to be accused of misusing Inquisition resources for personal reasons. But if they could find Cole’s old friends or Varric’s copycat, they could certainly also work to find the whereabouts of the spymaster’s lover, who also happened to be a Grey Warden who might provide insight into their current situation.

She tried to demur, so he said, “Consider it an order from the Inquisitor.” She looked about to protest again, so he added, “We should know if this fake calling is restricted to Orlais, or is affecting Wardens all across Thedas, after all.” With this she capitulated, although the look she gave him let him know she wasn’t fooled by his justifications.

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” she said, and he turned to leave. “But Pietro, as I was saying …?”

“Don’t pick out china patterns, yes.” The joke fell flat, and he shrugged, sheepish. “Thank you, Leliana.”

He snagged a scrap of parchment and jotted a quick note before heading to his rooms.

 _Join me for dinner this evening?_ he penned, and snagged a passing runner in the great hall. “Would you please see this delivered to Warden Stroud?” he asked, and the man nodded, bobbing in a quick bow before speeding away.

Pietro made another quick stop, a run by the kitchens, wheedling some food from the cook and arranging for dinner, then sprinted through the great hall and mounted the steps to his tower two at a time.

He lingered in the bath, indulging in some much needed pampering, then spent an age fretting over what to wear, finally settling on a simple ivory linen shirt and a pair of loose trousers, soft cotton that clung like silk. Someone had tipped off the kitchen, for the meal that had been sent up consisted of finger foods and wouldn’t be for the worse if it wasn’t eaten immediately. He spent a few minutes trying to guess whether that had been Josie’s or Leliana’s idea, then decided they’d probably both been involved. They were both incurable romantics, those two, and he was sure they’d put their heads together almost immediately after their meeting had broken up. 

Realizing he was starting to pace, he forced himself to relax, uncorking a bottle of wine and pouring a glass. He stood out on the balcony, sipping and watching the sun set, until he heard the tread of feet on the stairs. He resisted the urge to dash inside, made himself lean on the balcony and wait.

“Inquisitor?” Stroud called, and he responded. “Out here. Bring the wine.” He turned and watched as Stroud came into view, carrying the bottle and a goblet. Stroud stopped dead in the doorway, and they both seemed dazzled by the sight of the other. Stroud, too, had bathed, and his hair was still damp, falling down across his forehead and curling slightly. He was also dressed simply, a loose shirt of faded blue cotton, laces open at the neck, and leather trousers, well worn, clinging to his legs. They both realized they were staring at the same time, and chuckled in unison. Stroud poured himself a glass of wine, and topped off Pietro’s goblet, then set the bottle on the balcony next to their feet. Pietro turned back to the sunset and Stroud joined him, their arms brushing as they both leaned against the railing. 

“This is better than my cave, I must say,” Stroud said. 

“The smell is an improvement, I agree.” The mountain air, crisp and cool, ruffled their hair, bringing the scent of snow from outside of the keep’s enchantments. “It’s unfortunate that I get so little time to savor this.” Pietro paused, took a sip of wine. “I keep telling myself that someday that will change, that there will be end to this fight, and Maker willing I will have some time to breathe before another crisis looms.”

He felt Stroud’s hesitation before the Warden spoke. “Pietro, you must know …”

Pietro interrupted him, “… that you are a Grey Warden, and that you have been so since before I was born.” Stroud snorted, expressions of both amusement and embarrassment flashing across his face, and Pietro continued. “And I could die from a random encounter three days from now as we travel to the Western Approach.” He reached over, laid it over Stroud’s hand where it rested on the railing. “I have no illusions about us riding off into that sunset together. I am only certain that you make my blood sing.” He rubbed his thumb across Stroud’s knuckles, looked up to see the smile that was almost hidden under the moustache.

“Well, if that is the case,” Stroud said, setting his goblet on the railing and reaching up, tracing the shape of Pietro’s jaw with his fingers as he leaned in to capture his lips with his own. And oh, if that first kiss had been a promise, this one fulfilled that promise and more. Pietro found himself backed up against the railing, a strong hand at the small of his back and another buried in his hair. Stroud’s lips tasted of the wine they’d shared, and his body burned through the thin layers of fabric that separated them. Distracted, Pietro tried to set his goblet on the railing as well and realizing he missed when he heard the clang of metal on stone beneath them. 

Stroud laughed, moving downwards from lips to neck, and Pietro grasped his arms and gasped as he felt the press of teeth. He shifted, drawing his arms down through Stroud’s and retaliated, sliding his hands up under Stroud’s shirt, fingers tingling as they traveled first upwards against bare skin, then skimming downwards, cupping his buttocks through the leather and squeezing, pulling Stroud even closer and grinding against him.

He realized Stroud was murmuring in Orlesian in between his kisses and bites, almost inaudible over the pounding of his heart, breath tickling with the words, cool against his burning skin. He caught his name, whispered almost like a prayer. “Pietro.” Passion exaggerated Stroud’s accent, and the sound of it make Pietro’s knees weak.

“Jean,” he responded, and gasped as this elicited a moan, vibrating against his skin. Everything would have been perfect except for the hard stone digging into his back. “Jean,” he repeated, as he shoved against the railing, moving them both towards the doors. Stroud made a noise of protest and he silenced it with another kiss, then said murmured “bed.”

“Bed,” Stroud agreed, and let himself be pushed backwards again. 

They managed to shed their shirts between the door and the bed, and Stroud was quick to take advantage of the simple drawstring at Pietro’s waist. Pietro had more of a struggle, lacings and leather conspiring to keep the entirety of Stroud’s body away from him for precious seconds. Frustrated, he pushed Stroud again until his legs hit the edge of the bed and he fell backwards onto the mattress, laughing as Pietro stripped his pants away. The laughter died and was replaced with a moan as Pietro caressed the insides of his calves, teasing him with the lightest of touches and kisses. His thumb grazed the sole of Stroud’s feet, and Stroud spasmed, swearing and drawing his leg up. Pietro just avoided a knee to the face and fell back, laughing as Stroud curled up on the bed, foot drawn in protectively, glaring at him. He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Okay. Stay away from the feet. Duly noted. Are there any other parts of you I should avoid touching?”

Stroud relaxed, unfolding slowly. “I apologize. It’s been so long, I’d forgotten ….” He shrugged, sheepish.

“So am I safe?” Pietro grinned as he crawled forward, placing both hands on the mattress, one on either side of Stroud’s hips.

“That I cannot promise,” Stroud replied, and without warning Pietro found himself flipped onto his back, Stroud above him, pressing him down into the mattress.

“Well, this is familiar,” he joked. “So are you going to kill me or ….” Stroud silenced him before he could finish his question, laughing as he claimed his lips, and Pietro happily allowed it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Skyhold**

Pietro woke slowly to the sound of breath in his ear and the warmth of flesh pressed against his body. He took advantage of the soft light of dawn to appreciate the contrast of Stroud’s skin against his, alabaster pale against his olive tones. Hands and face were weathered and tanned, but he could see the veins in Stroud’s chest, a delicate network of blue. He traced the path of one vein, finger barely skimming along the surface of Jean’s skin, but that lightest of touches was still enough to disturb his sleep. Or so it seemed at first, as he shivered and stirred. But he didn’t wake, and then he began to mutter, eyes twitching under his lids. His brow furrowed and his hand clenched, pinching painfully at Pietro’s skin. A nightmare, Pietro thought, and stroked his arm, making smoothing sounds, trying to calm Stroud back to dreamless sleep, but instead he sat bolt upright, cursing, the whites of his eyes showing as he cast wildly around, flailing at the air.

Calming hadn’t worked, so he took the other option and rolled off the bed, away from Stroud’s flailing fists. He continued to speak soft words of comfort, watching as the dream receded, as his surroundings started to register. 

He saw Stroud take it in, him alone in the bed and Pietro sitting on the floor. Stricken, he reached out.

"I didn't ...?" He started and Pietro hastened to reassure him.

"I'm fine, don't worry." The floor was cold, he realized, now that the moment was past, and he rose, slipping back into bed and pulling the covers, shivering slightly at the sudden contact of warm skin as Stroud pulled him close.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have stayed," Stroud apologized. 

"Do these happen often?" Pietro asked.

"Every night," Stroud said. "It's the Calling. I can keep it at bay in the daytime, but at night, in my dreams?" 

Feeling him shudder, Pietro snuggled in, stroking his back. "What are they like?"

"They never seem to be nightmares, not at the start. I hear voices, calling to me. I can never understand what they're saying, but I know if I follow them, find their source, it will all make sense. I travel far, deep underground, letting them lead me, and then, well, I ... I can't say I wake up, because I'm still dreaming, but my dream self realizes that something is wrong, and then there I am trapped in the Deep Roads, surrounded by darkspawn. They attack, and I wake."

“Is that why you were out on the battlements, that night in Crestwood?”

Stroud nodded. “Trying to clear my head, yes. Some nights I can go back to sleep.”

“And did you get back to sleep that night?” he asked, and Stroud tightened his embrace. 

“No, for some reason that night I remained awake for the remainder of the evening.”

That called for a kiss, Pietro decided. And another, and another. And it seemed the legends of Grey Warden stamina had their basis in fact, and by the time they were through the sun was shining in through the windows. He had every intention of getting up afterwards, but decided to give himself just another minute or two, not realizing when he drifted off between one rise and fall of Stroud’s chest.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

How had the time gotten away from him again, Cullen wondered as he rushed through the Great Hall? Well, no, he knew how. He’d sat down to review one more report, and that one had reminded him that he needed to follow up on another, and now everyone else would be waiting for him in the War Room.

He stopped himself just short of knocking Leliana down as he opened the door to Josephine’s office. She pulled back in surprise and he flushed, stammering out an apology.

“I know, I’m late. I’m sorry.”

“You are not the only one. The Inquisitor is late as well. I was just going to check on him.”

“Oh, thank the Maker. I mean …” Leliana’s laughter cut him off, and he found himself smiling in response. “I can go. A few of these are for him anyways, and I can drop them off now instead of afterwards.”

Leliana started to say something, stopped, and started again. “Excellent. We’ll be waiting.” There was a twinkle in her eyes that worried him, but before he could question her she was shooing him out, shutting the door in his face. He stood, indecisive, in front of the door for a minute before turning towards the stairs to the Inquisitor’s quarters.

“Inquisitor?” There was no answer when he called from the base of the stairs, so he started up. He called again as he neared the top, and heard a muffled curse in response. 

Just as he reached the main floor, Pietro called out. “Cullen? Give me a minute, will you?” 

But by then it was too late. 

He took it all in in an instant. Pietro was scrambling out of bed, completely nude, haloed by the morning light. The bed he’d vacated was not empty, and he caught a flash of pale skin and dark hair as the person there pulled the bedclothes back from where they’d been thrown when Pietro had bolted up. Oh sweet Maker, that was the Grey Warden who’d arrived yesterday. He could feel his face flush as he spun, facing the wall, stammering apologies for the second time that morning.

“Inquisitor! Warden! I beg your pardon. I, er, have some reports for you.” He cleared his throat. “I was going to give them to you after our session in the War Room, but then Leliana said you weren’t there yet, so I, er … I’ll just leave them here.” He put them on the floor at the top of the stairs. “Um, I’ll let the others know you’ll be along shortly?” he ended awkwardly, then fled back down the stairs again. 

He paused at the base of the stairs, trying to collect himself before entering the Great Hall again. He heard laughter, faint, intimate, from above, and rested his head on the door for a moment, then pulled it open and strode out.

Leliana and Josephine were giggling when he walked into the War Room. He glared at them both.

“You knew, didn’t you?” he demanded.

Their responses were immediate and simultaneous.

“Knew what?” Josephine asked.

“Whatever do you mean, Cullen?” Leliana said.

And then they both giggled again. He’d just gotten his flush under control, but there it went again.

He was spared having to form a response when Pietro rushed in behind him, breathless from running. 

"Sleep well, Inquisitor?" Leliana asked, and Josephine giggled. Again. Would they ever stop?

"Shush, you!" Pietro replied, grinning. He had taken very little time to put himself together. His hair, normally pulled back into a neat tail, fell loose around his shoulders, his shirt was untucked and his tunic was thrown on, unbuttoned. As he took his place at the table, Cullen breathed in the smell of sweat and sex and his groin tightened in response. His traitorous brain chose that moment to remind himself of what he'd just seen a few minutes earlier, supplying in amazing detail everything that those hastily-donned clothes covered, considering the few scant seconds he'd stared. 

He reminded himself yet again that their charming, handsome, young Inquisitor deserved better than an old, broken down, addiction-riddled ex-Templar. His brain rebelled again, reminding him that the Grey Warden was even older than he and Blight-tainted to boot, and he scolded himself sternly, forcing his attention back to business.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Cullen blushed all the way through their meeting, so much so that Pietro rushed back to his rooms immediately afterward, feeling obligated to read the reports that the Commander had embarrassed himself so in delivering. He suppressed a pang of disappointment to discover his rooms empty, but finding a brief note from Stroud atop Cullen's reports, which had been placed on his desk, brought a smile to his face.

_Pietro,_

_I'm certain Varric will insist on a drink or ten this evening. Join us?_

_J_

With that impetus, he dove into the pile on his desk, Cullen’s reports as well as everything else that had piled up in his absence, then made the rounds, dropping one stack off with Josephine, one with Leliana, and swinging by Cullen’s tower to return the rest, now carefully annotated. He saw Cullen’s nostrils flare as they reviewed them and realized with embarrassment that he’d neglected to wash that morning. The man was still blushing, too, and rubbing his neck throughout their meeting, a sure sign of his continued embarrassment. He thought about trying to put him at ease but after consideration decided against it. That would only lead to more awkwardness and stammering, and Cullen would get even redder, and probably start to sweat, so he excused himself without bringing up that morning’s encounter. It looked like Cullen was about to say something as he was leaving, but when he hesitated at the door, nothing was forthcoming, so he gave an internal shrug and left.

It had gotten later than he realized, the sun close to sinking behind the mountain peaks, and he realized he hadn’t eaten anything yet that day. That wouldn’t do if there was going to be drinking that evening. A quick but hearty meal remedied that, and then a necessary bath, and he headed to the tavern.

Varric and Hawke were already well into their cups, table littered with pitchers, roaring in laughter as they reminisced, interrupting each other and finishing each other’s sentences in between clinks of their tankards. Stroud was leaning back against the wall, a smile playing across his face, seemingly engrossed in their antics, but as soon as Pietro started making his way towards them he looked up, and the smile grew, lips curving and eyes crinkling with warmth. Hesitant, he started to sit across the table from Stroud, but happily relocated when Stroud patted a spot on the bench next to him, leaning in as Stroud pulled him close.

“What round are they on?” Pietro asked as Stroud filled a tankard for him from one of the pitchers.

“Four, I think? Maybe five? I’ve lost count.” 

Stroud’s tankard was almost full, and he seemed sober, especially in comparison with his companions. At Pietro’s enquiring look, he shrugged. “Drink makes the nights worse.”

Conversation was impossible, between the noise Varric and Hawke were making and the Chargers in the corner, up to their usual antics, so he watched and listened, sipping his ale and leaning into Stroud’s embrace. He found he was paying less and less attention to the tales being told and more to the caress of Stroud’s thumb up and down his side. He leaned in, murmuring in Stroud’s ear, “Do you think they’ll miss us if we leave?”

“They forgot about me some time ago, and I don’t think they ever noticed your arrival,” Stroud replied.

They both left their tankards, still mostly full, and slipped out. True to Stroud’s word, neither Varric nor Hawke noticed them go, although Pietro caught a nod and a wink from Bull as they rose.

He took advantage of the shadows in the courtyard to pull Stroud in for a kiss, hungry and demanding. Stroud responded in kind, hands buried in his hair, his grip stopping just short of pain as he pulled, and he was grateful for the rough stone at his back when Stroud’s lips and teeth grazed his neck and his knees went weak. In seconds they were both gasping, and Pietro moaned when Stroud broke away.

“Bed?” Stroud asked, voice husky.

“Bed,” Pietro agreed. 

Somehow they made it back to Pietro’s quarters, shedding clothes as they climbed the stairs. That should prevent another interruption in the morning, was Pietro’s last coherent thought.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric, Hawke, and Cullen meet for a friendly drink to reminisce. Pietro and company set out for the Western Approach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a little short, but what comes after didn't seem to fit here.

There was a note sitting on Cullen’s desk when he got back from their war table meeting.

_Varric wants to reminisce about the good times tonight. You’ll come, won’t you?_

There was no signature, but he recognized the handwriting. 

A drink or ten would be good, he decided after Pietro showed up in his office that afternoon, still devastatingly disheveled. Everything about the man was a test to his resolve. There was the line of his neck, more visible than usual today with his undone collar. His hair fell across his forehead as he leaned over Cullen’s desk, still loose about his shoulders. His eyes were more grey than green this morning, and the constant smile reflected in them only served to draw Cullen’s eyes to his lips. And Maker help him, he still hadn’t bathed and the scent of him nearly drove Cullen mad. 

And the most maddening part, he thought after Pietro had left, was that it could have been him that put that smile on Pietro’s face. He could have been the one to wake up with him this morning, both of them laughing together as they scrambled to not be late to the war table. 

No. He’d rejected Pietro’s advances for a good reason, he reminded himself again. With a sigh, he turned back to the stacks of his reports.

Distracted as he was, Hawke’s arrival caught him by surprise.

“Commander.”

He responded automatically. “Champion.” 

Hawke winced. “Nobody’s called me that in … a long time.”

They stared at each other, each lost in remembrance, until Hawke stirred.

“Just checking to see if you got my note.”

Cullen nodded. “I don’t know if I can …”

Hawke cut him off. “You’re coming, because if you don’t I lose my bet with Varric, and he needs to lose every now and then. Keeps him humble.”

That got the laugh he’d been aiming for. “Varric? Humble? Are we talking about the same dwarf here?”

“Well, a man has to try. So put down all those boring papers, change into something a little less furry, and come relax for a few hours.”

“Give me an hour, and I’ll be there.”

Hawke gave him the look that he remembered so well, head cocked, one eyebrow raised, and he chuckled. “I promise. One hour.”

“If you’re late, I’ll drag you there by the ear,” Hawke warned, and sauntered out.

It was a few minutes past the hour when he walked through the door of the Herald’s Rest. He would have been on time, except just as he was crossing the courtyard he’d seen Stroud and Pietro duck into a shadowy corner. He’d stood there for several minutes, taking deep breaths to steady himself after they’d passed him, so wrapped up in each other they were oblivious to his presence.

Varric’s look of surprise when he walked in was worth it, he decided. 

“Curly. You made it. I’ll be damned.”

“Told you he’d come,” Hawke said, winking at Cullen, then snapped his fingers. “Okay, pay up.”

Varric groaned, then signaled to the barmaid. Before he ordered, Hawke said, “Two glasses,” pointing at himself and Cullen.

“What was the bet, exactly?” Cullen asked as he sat, and Hawke grinned. 

“I’d cover his tab for the evening if you didn’t show. He’d buy us both a bottle of the best if you did.”

“Do I want to know what constitutes the best?” 

“Just you wait,” Hawke promised.

The best turned out to be a bottle of single malt whiskey, subtle and rich, with smoky hues and a creamy finish, that warmed him from head to toe with the first sip.

He’d never been much of a drinker, and so even though he gave his drink the attention it deserved, by the time he got to the bottom of the glass he was feeling pleasantly relaxed, and when Hawke topped him off he didn’t protest. 

There were many things he wanted to forget about Kirkwall, but that evening he was reminded that there had been some good moments. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so much, and to his surprise he found himself recounting a few tales as well. He and Hawke took turns telling Varric about the time they’d worked together to track down one particular apostate, one who’d been very much not worthy of Meredith’s paranoid suspicions. 

“And then he,” Hawke paused to take another drink. “Oh, blast it, he said something completely ridiculous, but I can’t remember what it was. Cullen, help me out here.”

“I don’t remember either, exactly. It was something about Templars being chickens and they should look the part.”

“Yeah, that was it. And then he pulled this rope and all of a sudden we were drenched in honey.” 

“And then the feathers. So many feathers,” 

Varric stared back and forth at the two of them, jaw open, shaking his head in disbelief. “And how is it I’m just hearing about this now for the first time?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Varric. Why would we have not told you about a supremely embarrassing moment like this?” Hawke asked.

Cullen continued. “It’s not like we would have worried about you writing it down and publishing it anywhere.”

“Yeah, and never with character names like Gareth and Colin.” The two of them clinked their glasses together.

“Okay, I’ll give you that. So what happened to the mage?”

“He got away. We weren’t in any real condition to follow him, after all,” Cullen said.

“Plus, what kind of a threat was he really? I mean, of all the things he could have done to us? Feathers? The man was harmless,” Hawke finished.

“Really, Curly? You let an escaped mage stay escaped? What kind of a Templar were you?” Varric joked, then immediately looked contrite.

There was an awkward silence, and then Hawke rallied. “That reminds me, _Curly_ , what have you done to your hair?”

Grateful for the change of subject, he played along. “Hair’s fine. Hair’s good. Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No, it used to be so much more …” Hawke trailed off, and Varric helpfully supplied “Noodley?”

“Noodley? Really?” Cullen pretended to be outraged.

“No, really, you’ve done something different.” Hawke reached up, running his fingers through Cullen’s hair. “It feels different, even. Softer.”

They both froze as Varric cleared his throat, then turned as one to see the look of speculation on the dwarf’s face.

“So, that story about the feathers? Not the only thing you two kept secret, I guess?”

Hawke drew his hand back like he’d been burned, and Cullen flushed, looking away and rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment.

“Well,” Hawke finally said, because damn the man, he could never meet a silence he didn’t want to fill. “That’s kind of another part of the feather story.” 

Varric put his hands up. “Okay, you can spare me the details. I get the picture.” He tipped his tankard bottoms up, then continued. “I can see why the big secret, though. Can’t imagine it would have gone over too well.

Cullen snorted. “Yes, that would have been seen as taking my orders to ‘watch over the Champion’ a little too far, I’m sure.”

“I think I need to revise my estimation of your acting abilities, Curly. I thought I knew all your tells, but this?” Varric made a sweeping gesture with his hands. “Never a clue. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Nice to know I can still surprise you,” Cullen said, and Varric signaled the barmaid again. 

“As soon as I get a refill, I’ll drink to that,” the dwarf replied.

It was a natural progression after that, it seemed, Hawke following him when he left the tavern. He remembered all the spots that drove Hawke mad, and they both collapsed, sweating and exhausted afterwards. If he let himself imagine, just for a minute, as he ran his fingers through Hawke's hair that it was longer, softer, no one would know.

He’d somehow managed to forget, however, just how clingy Hawke was while sleeping. It took him three tries to extricate himself from the tangle of limbs in the morning.

He was in the middle of taking a report just after noon when Hawke finally slid down the ladder from his loft. He was torn between embarrassment at being so blatantly caught out and amusement at the expressions on his soldiers’ faces as they tried not to stare.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

By the time they reached the Western Approach, they knew every inch of the other’s bodies. They didn’t talk about it, but Pietro was sure it had been much longer between partners for Stroud than he, yet the first few nights had taken the edge off for them both and they began a leisurely exploration of each other. He discovered that Stroud was also ticklish just at the curve of his lower ribs, and Stroud tried to retaliate, but gave up in disgust after being unable to elicit any response on any part of Pietro’s body. Pietro was quick to demonstrate that he appreciated the attempt, and they were less successful than usual at keeping the noise down that evening.

Some nights, they’d forgo the tent and lay together under the stars, murmuring quietly to each other before drifting off, wrapped up in each other’s arms. He ignored the little voice in the back of his head that tried to warn him how this was becoming more than the casual affair he’d named it. He thought sometimes he’d see the same realization lurking behind Stroud’s gaze as well, but he didn’t dare to hope, and it was one thing about which they never talked.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He’d never seen so much sand before in his life. It stretched out seemingly forever, a bland tan in color with patches of deep ochre in shadows, interspersed with outcroppings of rock in variations of the same colors. There wasn’t a single speck of green in sight. Even the ubiquitous elfroot they came across seemed faded, the green of its leaves less vibrant, blending into the changeless landscape.

Hawke and Stroud had conferred with the Inquisition’s scouts and would be heading out on their own in the morning to seek out the Wardens, while he focused on investigating Venatori activity in the region. His instant dislike for the Approach had nothing to do with the thought that the place beside him in his bedroll would be empty come next evening, nothing at all.

 

They stole away together shortly after sunset that evening, to an outcrop not far from camp. The temperature had dropped as night fell, but the rocks retained their sun-baked warmth. Pietro leaned back against a pillar, and Stroud lay back, head in his lap, as they watched the stars emerge.

“There’s Judex.” Pietro pointed off to the north, where it was just visible above the horizon. 

“Where?”

“Just there. See the four stars in a row? That’s the hilt. And just over there is Draconis.”

Stroud squinted up at the sky. “How is that supposed to look like a dragon?”

“That zigzag line is the tail, and the wings branch off to either side.”

“I don’t see it.”

“No, just there.” He looked down, and realized that Stroud wasn’t staring at the sky at all. Laughing, he took Stroud’s chin in hand and tried to point it in the right direction, trying to ignore the pang in his heart at the smile on Stroud’s face. “You’re not even looking!”

“I’ll have nights enough to look up at the sky in the weeks to come,” he replied, and surged up, capturing Pietro’s lips with his, the force of his kiss making Pietro gasp.

When they broke apart, Pietro felt a stinging in his eyes.

“Tomorrow,” he murmured.

“Tomorrow,” Stroud echoed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're coming up on Adamant. I don't want to get to Adamant.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pietro and Stroud go to the Western Approach and discover what's happened to the Wardens.

There was sand and fighting, and more sand and more fighting, and then even more sand. Sand was everywhere. In his boots, in his bedroll, in his morning porridge even. Griffon Wing Keep had been poorly treated, but it had floors that didn’t shift under his feet with every step and walls that kept the wind from peppering his face with gritty particles. Plus there was a well, with a seemingly inexhaustible supply of clear cold water. Yes, Pietro decided, Griffon Wing Keep was the most marvelous keep in all of Thedas. 

It was all the better when a report came in from one of their outlying camps that they’d received word from Stroud and Hawke. The two of them had tracked a group of Wardens to a ruins south of the keep. Birds flew and they arranged to meet at the Inquisition camp nearest to these ruins that afternoon.

At Master Dennet’s suggestion, their horses had been sent back shortly after the first scouts had established themselves, and an effort had been made to catch and break to the saddle a number of dracolisks. Unlike the other denizens of this desert climate, they were relatively even tempered and tractable, and within a fairly short time a string of them had been tamed. Their gait took some getting used to, and for long rides they’d be uncomfortable, as narrow-backed as they were, but for short runs across the sands they couldn’t be matched.

Even with mounts, they didn’t want to travel during the worst heat of the day, and Pietro chafed at the delay, pushing the pace when they did set out at last. His tailbone wouldn’t thank him, he knew, but it was all worth it when they neared the campsite and he saw Stroud’s silhouette against the skyline.

There wasn’t any falling into each other’s arms. This wasn’t one of Varric’s novels, and it hadn’t even been two weeks since they’d parted. 

Before the light faded, they all gathered around as the lead scout spread a map out on one of the tables. 

“The ruins where the Wardens are gathering are here.” Stroud pointed to a spot south and slightly west of where the camp was. “There is someone with them, not a Warden. I think he may be a mage, but I haven’t been able to get close enough to confirm this. There are several angles of approach we can use which will allow us to get fairly close to the ruins without being noticed.”

“How many Wardens are there?” Pietro asked, tracing the routes with his finger.

“I’ve counted nine, including the stranger I mentioned,” Stroud said.

“I hope there won’t be fighting, but if there is, the numbers are in our favor.” They had a squad of Inquisition soldiers here to supplement their forces. 

Stroud rubbed his forehead, looking tired. “You cannot hope that more than I.”

There wasn’t much to add after that. Campfires were lit as the sun set, and Pietro helped drive the stakes for the simple rope barrier that would keep their mounts in place overnight. Once they were herded into the enclosure, the dracolisks all huddled together into one giant mass of scales, heads draped over their neighbors’ backs, and were soon asleep. Their chorus of whistling snorts and snores blended into the other night sounds, and Stroud found Pietro leaning on one of the stakes, watching them, a slight smile just visible in the last rays of the setting sun. 

Arms circled his waist, and lips found his neck and he melted into the embrace, sighing happily at the touch. Stroud’s caresses grew more heated and he twisted, turning to face Stroud and capture his lips with his own.

 _I missed you_ , he wanted to say, and _I think I’m falling in love with you_ even more so. He tried with everything he had to convey these thoughts without words, tracing cheek and jaw with his fingers as they kissed, pressing himself as close as their armors would allow.

Stroud’s arms tightened around him in response, and his kisses grew more insistent, and finally Pietro broke way, blood pounding, gasping for breath. He laughed, weakly.

“Only fifteen days apart,” Stroud murmured. “How could I have missed you so much?”

Hearing his own thoughts spoken aloud made Pietro’s heart pound all the harder.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Corypheus would pay, Pietro swore to himself, clenching and unclenching his fists as he watched Stroud put a name to each body they prepared for the pyre. Dorian called fire and they stood watch as eight Wardens burned.

He’d sent scouts to follow Erimond, ordering them to report back to the keep when they learned his destination. That left them nothing to do when the ashes settled except return there themselves. 

The entire ride back to the keep, Stroud was silent. He disappeared for a time after they arrived, and when he hadn’t reappeared after sunset, Pietro went searching. At last he found him, on the highest level of the highest tower, sitting with his legs dangling over the edge, staring out across the desert.

He said nothing, just sat beside him, an arm around his waist, and Stroud’s head sagged against his shoulder. 

Stroud broke the silence at last.

“How could they?” His voice was thick with emotion. “How could Clarel sanction this? The blood magic, killing our own. How could they have been taken in?” His voice broke, and Pietro felt him shudder. He drew him in, enfolding him in his embrace, held him as he sobbed, heart breaking. 

“I’m sorry, love. I’m so sorry. We’ll do everything we can to find them, to stop them, before more lives are lost to this madness.” He didn’t know if Stroud heard him or not, kept stroking Stroud’s back, his hair, kissing his forehead, murmuring words of comfort and reassurance until the storm passed, then coaxing him back to room he’d claimed. 

He watched as Stroud drifted off into sleep, lying next to him, allowing himself to doze while he waited for the nightmare he knew would come. He was still caught unprepared when between one moment and the next Stroud bolted straight upright in bed, screaming. At least this time there were no fists to dodge and he gathered him in, waiting for him to calm. Hands gripped him almost painfully, and his heart beat in time with Stroud’s ragged breathing. 

Finally Stroud spoke, voice hoarse and halting.

“Oh, Maker, the darkspawn, they were all wearing Warden armor, and each one had your face.”

He reached out, hand trembling, and Pietro took his hand, kissed it, leaned into the touch as Stroud caressed his cheek.

The next morning the scouts returned. They’d tracked Erimond to another fortress deep in the Approach. When they described it, Stroud’s face grew grim.

“Adamant Fortress. It has stood against darkspawn since the time of the Second Blight. It will not fall easily.”

“You’re familiar with it?” Pietro asked.

“Yes, I’ve studied it extensively. What you have here? It will not be enough. You will need more soldiers, and siege weaponry as well.” 

“Then we should return to Skyhold and prepare. Will you come with us? I know Cullen would appreciate a firsthand account of your knowledge.” 

Stroud paused, considering, and Hawke spoke up.

“You should go, Stroud. I’ll stay here, send my observations along.” At Pietro’s surprised look, he shrugged. “What can I say? I haven’t gotten nearly enough sand in my shorts yet.”

As the plans continued on around them, Hawke sidled over to Pietro. “You should get him away from here. If he stays he might do something stupid,” he murmured.

As that had been Pietro’s thought exactly, he just nodded.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They’d had warning, coded messages sent by bird, so by the time the Inquisitor and his party arrived back at Skyhold, the mobilization was already underway. Thanks to Josephine, siege engines were already on their way to the Approach, and their forces would be ready to move out when Cullen gave the word.

They took two days to finalize their plans. Cullen spent most of a day closeted with Warden Stroud, who had an extensive knowledge of Adamant. He found himself admiring the Warden’s keep grasp of military strategy as they talked. Stroud identified several choke points where they should be able to trap the Warden forces, preventing them from engaging the main Inquisition force. He was in total agreement with Stroud that they should attempt to save as many lives as possible. Once Pietro and Stroud had explained the situation, he’d felt sick with the thought of the deception that had been played on the Wardens.

He was surprised when Stroud reappeared in his office shortly after sunset.

“Commander.”

“Warden? Was there something you forgot?”

Stroud hesitated before continuing to speak. “As I’m sure you know, Commander, no battle ever goes exactly as planned. Although I have no intention of dying anytime in the near future, I also know that I cannot predict what may occur, and I was hoping I could entrust you with this.” He reached forth, an envelope in his hand. When Cullen took it, saw the name written on the envelope, he had to make a conscious effort to keep his hand from trembling. Taking a deep breath, he said “Of course. I’ll keep it safe.”

“Thank you.”

He should have let it rest there, but he found himself saying, “And if you do, in fact, not die in the near future, what are your plans then?”

“I have to admit, I have no idea.” Stroud shrugged, laughed. “Just a few months ago, I knew what the course of my life was. And now?” The smile that spread across his face was painful for Cullen to behold. “Pietro …” he trailed off, and just the sound of his name on Stroud’s lips made Cullen’s heart clench. “The future is not something we’ve yet discussed, but I hope …” He paused, cleared his throat. “I know the Inquisition already has one Warden in its service, but my experiences are vastly different from your Blackwall, and perhaps there could be a place for me as well in your ranks?”

It took every ounce of Cullen’s control to keep his expression neutral. “Of course. We would be honored to have you.”

“I must thank you again, Commander.” Stroud bowed and left.

Slowly, Cullen sank into his chair, placing the letter on the desk in front of him. 

“I’m a fool,” he told his empty office. Sighing in frustration, he pulled open a drawer, meaning to put the letter in there for safe keeping. He picked the wrong drawer, of course, the one with the lyrium kit in it, and at the sight of the engraved box he froze. Hands trembling, he shoved the letter into the drawer and slammed it shut again. Just the sight of the kit had his head throbbing, his body aching with need. Not now, please, he begged, but his mouth had gone dry and the first shudder wracked his body. 

He watched as if from a distance as his hands opened the drawer again, picked up the box, placed it on the desk in front of him, in the space where the letter had rested just moments before. His hands shook as he worked the clasps, pushing back the lid. 

It would be so easy. Things would be so better. He’d be whole again, better able to focus, better able to serve. 

“No,” he whispered to himself, and then again, shouting. “No!” He would not give in, he thought as he swept the kit off his desk. He’d used more force than he intended, and watched with horror as it shattered next to the door just as Pietro walked through it.

“Maker’s Breath! I didn’t hear you enter! I … Forgive me.”

“So long as you weren’t aiming at me. I’m sure the box had it coming,” Pietro joked.

“I swear, I didn’t know you were …” He took a step forward and a wave of dizziness hit. His knees buckled and he grasped at his desk for support. Without his meaning to it all poured out, the horror at Kinloch hold and then the continuation of the nightmare that was Kirkwall. _Look at all the ways I am broken_ , he said. _Why would you ever want someone like me_ , he meant.

He couldn’t look at Pietro as he talked, afraid of what he might see, working himself into a frenzy. 

“I will not give less to the Inquisition than to the Chantry. I should be taking it!” He lashed out, punching the bookshelf, hearing his voice break as he shouted. “I should be taking it,” he repeated, almost whispering, almost forgetting there was someone else there with him.

He pulled back in shock when a hand touched his arm. 

“Cullen, this doesn’t have to be about the Inquisition. Is this what you want?”

At that, he sagged back against the wall, all the anger draining out of him.

“No,” he choked out, “but if I cannot endure this?”

“You can.”

For the first time he looked up, met Pietro’s eyes, looked away again. There was care there, concern, and again he thought again _I am a fool_ , but for this man he could do no less.

“Alright,” he agreed.

Pietro nodded, reached up and grasped him by the shoulder briefly, and left.

The letter still stared up at him from where he’d placed it. Sighing, he pushed the drawer closed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition mounts its attack on Adamant Fortress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the chapter I've managed to put off for about 4,000 words. Don't hate me.

“Oh, that dragon’s clever, Boss. See how he’s flying? They can’t shoot at him without risking hitting our forces here inside the keep.”

Bull was right. Cullen had ordered his troops to concentrate their ballista fire on the dragon, knowing how helpful the huge weapons had been combating the archdemon at the end of the Fifth Blight. But they’d only gotten off a few shots before the creature had changed its tactics. 

Even so, the battle was proceeding just about as they’d planned. There had been minimal loss of life, and the Wardens were, on the whole, now working with Inquisition forces to combat demons instead of fighting against them.

They were tracking the dragon’s movements as they trailed along behind Clarel, catching up just as she used Erimond to mop the dust from the battlements. She turned as they ran up, lightning crackling from her fist, and Pietro braced himself for her attack, but sighed in relief when she relaxed, dropping her staff. He nodded to her and she half-bowed in acknowledgement, and then he watched in horror as the dragon landed behind her, snatching her up in its jaws and then casting her aside. It leapt up, landing behind them, trapping them at the edge of the battlements with no place to retreat. 

As it stepped over Clarel’s body, she stirred, and one final blast of lightning burst forth, ripping into the beast’s underbelly. It thrashed in pain, and the ancient wall beneath it collapsed, already weakened by barrages from the Inquisition’s siege engines. They watched as it righted itself and flew away.

They were left standing on the remains of the wall, but before Pietro had time to wonder how they’d get down the edge started caving in on itself. He started sliding as the stones beneath his feet tilted, and as he threw his hands out in a vain attempt to catch himself on something, anything, the mark on his hand flared.

Pietro closed his eyes against the green glare, wondering if he would feel it when he hit the ground. It took a moment to register that he no longer heard the crash of falling rocks or felt air rushing past his face. When he cracked his eyes open, it was to find himself hovering weightless, the ground several inches above his face. Confused, he reached out, and when his fingers brushed it suddenly he was no longer floating. He hit the ground with a thud and a groan, rolling over onto his back and pushing himself to his feet.

“Where are we?”

Stroud’s voice sounded from behind him. He turned to see Stroud standing over him, perpendicular to him with his feet squarely planted on a glowing green stalagmite. 

“We were falling.” Hawke was above them both, standing upside down from their perspective. “Is this … are we dead? If this is the afterlife, the Chantry owes me an apology. This looks nothing like the Maker’s bosom.”

He looked around. There was a greenish tinge to everything, and the landscape looked sickeningly familiar. 

Solas confirmed his suspicions.

“No, this is the Fade. The Inquisitor opened a rift. We came through and survived. I never thought I would find myself here physically.” He pointed. “Look. The Black City. Almost close enough to touch.

“Well, fuck,” Varric said.

“Yeah, this is shitty,” Bull agreed.

Pietro had never seen Bull look so discomfited before. At least the two of them were upright, at least from Pietro’s perspective. 

Stroud pointed out that they might be able to return to the real world through the rift Erimond had opened at Adamant, and no one else had a better plan. They could see it even, glowing off in the distance. 

Getting Stroud and Hawke standing on the same plane as the rest of them was rather humorous. Well, at least for everyone but Hawke, it was. Stroud simply walked “forward,” and when he was within arm’s reach he simply laid his forearms against the ground. Hawke, who was upside down and half a body length above everyone else, was a different matter. The rock outcropping he stood on was floating, not attached to anything he could walk down. He tried jumping, but just landed back where he started. Finally, Pietro laced his fingers together and gave Solas a boost, and when his and Hawke’s hands touched, he fell, hitting the ground in an explosion of dust.

“We’re not going to ever talk about this again, are we?” Hawke glared at Varric especially. “Ever.”

Varric raised his hands and shook his head. “My lips are sealed.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Bloodied and battered, they made it to the rift at last. Pietro was still reeling from the shock of memories regained, tired from the battles they had fought, and thoroughly sick of Hawke’s bitching. He’d finally snapped at the man after Hawke had goaded Stroud into a shouting match about whose fault this whole mess was, and now Hawke was sulking, trailing along behind them.

Was it hours they had traveled, or days, or mere minutes? There was no way of knowing. 

Even meeting Divine Justinia, or the spirit pretending to be her, had been just one more surreal experience, and with his memories regained it was a relief to have confirmed what he’d been saying all along. There was no great plan of the Maker. He was not some chosen one. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Josephine would want him to keep that to himself, he was sure. 

Whatever it was, soul or spirit, it sacrificed itself to weaken the Nightmare demon so they could escape. They still had to battle their way through lesser demons, including a powerful aspect of the Nightmare, but when it fell, Pietro watched as an unseen weight seemed to fall away from Stroud. He stood taller, and the lines that had creased his forehead since they met smoothed. He shook his head, rubbing at his temples, then smiled.

“It is gone! The Calling is gone!” he exclaimed.

“And we’re almost home,” Pietro replied, pointing. The rift was just ahead. “Come on!”

They were all bone weary, but managed a stumbling run nevertheless. Hawke tripped over the uneven terrain and almost fell. When Pietro caught him, he cried out in pain.

“Sorry. Ribs. Broken.” Hawke gasped out, grasping his side again. Pietro slung an arm over his shoulder and supported him, Stroud guarding their back. 

“We’re almost there. Hang on,” Pietro said. 

Varric, Solas and Bull had already passed through the rift. The three of them had almost reached it when the Nightmare rematerialized out of the mists, blocking their way.

Pietro stumbled to a halt, fighting despair. They were so close.

Beside him, Stroud swore, then said, “We need to clear a path.”

“Go. I’ll cover you,” Hawke said, pulling away from Pietro and trying to stand erect.

“You’re not in any shape for fighting. We’ll hold it off. You start for the rift as soon as we engage,” Pietro replied. 

Hawke and Stroud exchanged a look.

“You have to go back. Someone needs to help the Wardens rebuild,” Hawke said.

“No, you are right. The Wardens caused this, so a Warden should be the one to fix it.” Hawke tried to protest, and Stroud continued. “Besides, we both know you won’t survive against this demon long enough for the Inquisitor to reach the rift.”

Pietro interrupted them. “Will you stop acting like not all of us are going to make it?” 

“Pietro,” Stroud said, and Pietro’s heart lurched painfully in his chest at the look on Stroud’s face.

“No.” Pietro’s voice broke on the word. 

“I wish there were some other way, but there is not. You must go.”

“No,” he repeated, and Stroud cupped his face in his hands, kissed him, forehead, and lips, then stepped back. “It’s almost on us. Go now.” With that he turned and charged the Nightmare, shouting in challenge.

Hawke tugged at Pietro’s arm, urging him away. “Inquisitor, we don’t have much time.” Pietro resisted, and Hawke shouted at him, desperate. “Do you want his sacrifice to be in vain?” 

The first sob tore through his chest as he turned, letting Hawke pull him towards the rift, supporting him again after the first few steps. Before stepping through, he turned for one last look, but all he could see was the bulk of the Nightmare demon. 

They fell through and landed in the courtyard of Adamant. A battle was still raging, Wardens and Inquisition forces fighting side by side against demons. As they watched, the rift pulsed and another wave of demons coalesced.

“You have to close the rift, Inquisitor. I’m sorry,” Hawke said.

Pietro could barely see through his tears, but the magic of the mark still did its work. As the rift collapsed, so did he, falling to his knees on the stone, face in his hands.

There was cheering all around him, and a flood of voices. He heard Hawke assuring someone that no, he wasn’t hurt, just exhausted, and he laughed, a mirthless chuckle. Not exhausted, just heartbroken, he thought. He managed to force himself upright, but none of the words being spoken to him registered until one of the Wardens spoke.

“Where is Stroud?”

At that, something inside Pietro snapped. “Warden Stroud is dead. Thanks to all of you. He alone stood against Clarel’s madness. If not for him, you’d all be dead, or slaves to a servant of the Blight. And you repaid that by branding him a traitor.”  
“What can we do to make amends, Inquisitor?” the Warden asked.

Pietro didn’t hesitate. “You can leave.” Raising his voice, he continued. “By the authority of the Inquisition, you are banished from Southern Thedas. Hawke will oversee your return to your fortress at Weisshaupt.”

There were murmurs all through the courtyard at his words, but he didn’t care. People crowded around him, asking questions, but none of their words registered, nor any of their faces. They kept crowding him, though, until finally he screamed in frustration. “Leave me alone!” 

Suddenly there was a hand at his elbow, and a voice he recognized, speaking to the crowd. Cullen. Words still made no sense, but at least there was space around him. He stumbled forward until he reached a wall and leaned against it, forehead against the cool stone. Footsteps approached, and there was Cullen’s voice again, the same words repeating themselves. Finally, they started making sense.

“Inquisitor, are you alright? Are you hurt?” Cullen was asking, voice low, concerned.

 _Am I hurt?_ He laughed, low and bitter. _Not where it shows._

He turned, leaning back against the wall, scrubbing his eyes clear with the backs of his hands. Cullen’s face swam into focus, the walls of Adamant behind him, and something snapped.

“Commander.” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, tried again. “Commander, I need you to make sure everyone is clear. Then raze Adamant to the ground.”

“Inquisitor?”

“Did I stutter? I don’t want two stones left standing atop each other. Destroy this damned fortress.”

“But ….”

“TEAR IT DOWN!” Pietro roared, his voice breaking.

Later, looking back, Pietro could admit to himself that he’d gone a bit mad. It took five days of constant pounding with the siege engines to reduce Adamant to rubble, and he stayed on the line for the entire five days. He helped reload and realign the machinery, working side by side with the soldiers manning the equipment, dust caking on his armor on top of the sludge he’d accumulated in the Fade. 

If someone shoved food at him he would eat it, and if someone handed him a skin he would drink, but what it was he put in his mouth he couldn’t say. When exhaustion overcame him, he’d find an empty cot and lay down for an hour or two, but the pounding of rock on rock followed him into slumber and soon enough he’d be back again. 

Just after moonrise on the fifth day the last section of tower fell. Pietro staggered up one of the piles of rubble, planting an Inquisition banner at the top, and blinked in surprise at the cheers from below. 

He made it back down somehow, scrabbling over debris, and when he reached the line he endured the cheers, the slaps on the back, the congratulations. It was like he was watching it happen to someone else. 

Destroying Adamant now seemed petty, a useless gesture. It wouldn’t bring Jean back. He stumbled, would have fallen, but there was an arm around his shoulders. He leaned against the man, registering leather and fur and armor. Cullen. 

The Commander supported him, in the guise of a congratulatory embrace, held him up as they made it through the cheering crowd, led him into a tent and when his legs gave out half-dragged, half-carried him the rest of the way to a cot. He collapsed onto it, barely registering as Cullen straightened his legs, covered him with a blanket. He thought he felt a hand stroking his forehead just before sleep claimed him, but whether it was a real touch or the ghost of a memory, he couldn’t say.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pietro returns to Skyhold and Hawke says farewell to Cullen before leaving for Weisshaupt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yes, Star Wars ate my soul, but here's an update at last. Thank you for your patience!

The weeks after Adamant were trying, to say the least. Pietro managed to put on a public face when needed but saying that he wasn’t dealing well with Stroud’s death was like saying that Orlesians were slightly fond of cheese. Cullen arranged to send him back to Skyhold several days after Adamant had fallen, with promises from both Varric and Bull that they would keep an eye on him, make sure he would sleep and eat. He’d done precious little of either of those things even after coming down from the madness that had possessed him after returning from the fade. 

Cullen saw them off and it wrenched at his heart to see Pietro so quiet and pale.

It took more time to get the Wardens prepared for their journey. They’d be given an escort of Inquisition forces to the Orlesian border and he made sure they’d be supplied for the rest of their trip as best he was able. The mood of their camp was somber as the impact of the Inquisitor’s decree sank in. In the space of a few months the Wardens had lost every shred of goodwill they’d gained after the Fifth Blight and the blight was fresh enough in memory for people to worry what would happen the next time an archdemon rose.

Hawke had spent two days chafing under the healers’ ministrations and had made himself scarce afterwards, still not comfortable being around so many people after years of hiding. The evening before the Wardens’ departure he slipped into Cullen’s tent after nightfall.

“So we’ll be leaving in the morning. Thought I’d stop in to say goodbye and all.”

“Hawke, if you don’t want …” Cullen began, but Hawke interrupted him.

“No, it’s good. Inquisitor doesn’t need to see me around. It would only remind him of, well, you know. And I’ve never been to Weisshaupt. I’ll be able to mark another spot off on the map after this.” Hawke hesitated, then continued speaking. “I … said some things to Stroud before he died, things I shouldn’t have. And I owe him my life. I volunteered to stay behind, you know, except I was hurt and he didn’t think I’d be able to buy the Inquisitor enough time to get out. So I guess this is my penance.” 

There was a pause when Cullen couldn’t think of anything to say in response.

“Varric told me your Inquisitor is only nineteen. Nineteen! Bethany and Carver were eighteen when we fled Lothering, and here this lad is, only a year older and you’re doing this to him, making him lead this mess.”

“Not by choice,” Cullen tried to protest, and Hawke waved him down.

“I know, I know. It’s just … he’s so young,” he repeated. 

Cullen nodded in agreement and cast about for something to say that wasn’t even more depressing. 

“Have you heard from your pirate lately?” he finally asked.

Hawke grinned. “Oh, yes. Bela’s still causing havoc wherever she goes and loving every minute of it. I’ll catch up with her again once I’m through with this little trip.” There was another pause, neither of them quite willing to say goodbye. “So, since we’re on the topic of complicated relationships, whatever happened with you and the lad?” Hawke said at last.

Cullen shook his head, confused. “What lad?”

“Your Inquisitor.”

When Cullen stared at him blankly, Hawke shrugged. “It’s none of my business, really. I was just wondering.”

“Wait, you think we were ... the two of us? What …? I mean, no, there’s never been anything between us,” Cullen stammered.

“Really?” Hawke’s eyebrow shot up.

“No. Whatever made you think that?” Cullen protested.

“Well, maybe that time when we were having sex and you whispered his name in my ear.”

“Oh, sweet Maker.” Cullen felt the flush rise in his cheeks, almost feverish in its strength. He knew exactly when it must have happened, that brief moment when he'd let himself imagine it was someone else besides Hawke in his bed.

“So you’re not just being all gallant and protecting his virtue or some rot like that? The two of you really never did have a thing?”

“No, of course not. That’s ridiculous.”

“Why?” Hawke’s usually jocular tone was absent. He sounded genuinely curious.

“You can really ask that? You know me. You know what I’ve done, who I am.”

It was Hawke’s turn to be confused. “What you’ve done? You mean survive experiences that break men and come out on the other side? You mean standing up to a mad tyrant and helping put the pieces back together afterwards?” Cullen started to speak and Hawke stepped forward, reached up and put a finger across his lips. “Shush, you. I’m having a moment here, being all serious, and you have to let me get through it before the ground starts to shake in shock.” Cullen shook his head, smiling, but let Hawke continue.

“So, yes, that serious thing.” Hawke took his finger from Cullen’s lips, placed his hand on Cullen’s shoulder and squeezing. “Kirkwall was hellish for both of us. I still have nightmares and I’m sure you do to. But things would have been so much worse if you weren’t there. Cullen, I’ve seen you during the worst of times and even then you were still a good man.” He held Cullen’s eyes until Cullen gave him a reluctant nod, then broke out in a grin. “Good, that’s over then. So how about one for the road?” Before Cullen could protest, Hawke pulled him in for a kiss that left him gasping. 

“Serious moment is over, I take it?” he asked when Hawke let him up for air.

“I can’t keep it up for long, you know.” One more brush of lips, and Hawke stepped back. “Maybe I’ll see you around again someday?”

“Maybe,” Cullen agreed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Their arrival back at Skyhold was chaotic despite all Cullen’s planning. He should have expected it. This was the first time they’d mustered out such a force, after all. On top of it all there were a stack of things that had piled up in his absence despite his attempts to stay on top of things while in the field.

It wasn’t until long after the sun had set that he remembered the letter Stroud had given him before their departure and he berated himself for being so careless. How could he have forgotten? There was some scrambling as he tried to remember in which drawer he’d placed the letter but he found it after a short and frantic search. 

The hour was late but Josephine had mentioned that Pietro hadn't sleeping much.

 _I’ll just check on him. If he’s awake, I’ll give him the letter. If not, then tomorrow morning, first thing_ , Cullen thought.

He couldn’t help but remember the last time he’d climbed the steps to the Inquisitor’s quarters with papers in hand. As before, he called out, received no response. 

Pietro was curled up in a chair in front of the fireplace. He’d built the fire up to a roaring blaze and Cullen started to sweat as he approached.

His heart clenched as he took in the scene. Pietro was sitting sideways in the chair, cheek resting against the chair back, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around himself, asleep. It wasn’t an easy slumber. Pietro twitched and jerked and Cullen could see his eyes move behind closed lids. He muttered something, drawing tighter into himself.

Hesitant, Cullen reached out, took him by the shoulder, shook him gently.

“Inquisitor?” There was no response, and he tried again. “Pietro? You should go to bed.”

At this, Pietro stirred, eyelids fluttering.

“Jean, I had the most horrible dream.” His eyes fully opened and focused on Cullen, and his breath hitched. “Oh.” 

That one syllable tore at Cullen’s heart. That, and the lost, hurt look in Pietro’s eyes. He had to clear his throat before he could speak again. “Inquisitor? You should be in bed.”

“It’s so empty.”

“I know. I’m sorry. But you can’t sleep here. You’ll be all in knots, come morning.” Cullen held out his hand and after a moment Pietro took it. He winced as he unfolded, his muscles already stiff from the awkward position. Cullen found himself with his arm around Pietro’s waist, helping him cross the room. Pietro was flushed and sweating from the heat of the fire, he couldn’t help but notice. 

He ended up tucking Pietro into bed as if he were a child, and caught himself smoothing his hair back from his sweat-dampened forehead. Pietro tucked his hands into the coverlet, pulling it up around his shoulders even as warm as he was. His eyelids drooped and he forced them open again.

“Try to sleep. Please?”

Pietro shook his head. “Every time I close my eyes I see it again. The Fade, the Nightmare, closing the rift, leaving him behind.”

Cullen didn’t know what else to do, so he settled himself on the edge of the bed and began to sing. The Chant came easily to him, its familiar syllables soothing. He’d been told he had a good voice but had never appreciated it or the compliments it brought. It wasn’t anything useful, he’d always thought. It was an amusement, nothing more. But as he watched, Pietro gradually relaxed, his eyelids fluttering closed as his breaths grew quiet, and he thought maybe it was something more after all. 

He sang his way through the Canticle of Trials and then the Canticle of Exaltations for good measure. By that time Pietro was sound asleep, his face finally calm. Cullen rose with care, watching for any sign of stirring, but Pietro slept on. He eased his way across the room and down the stairs, closing the door carefully behind him. 

He’d come back first thing in the morning, before breakfast, he decided. The letter could wait one more evening.

But when he went back the next morning, the bed was empty, made up as if Pietro had never slept in it, and he was nowhere to be found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a good chunk of Chapter 8 already written. Cross your fingers for me!


	8. Chapter 8

“Leliana, do you have a minute?”

The spymaster blinked at Cullen, clearly surprised to see him here in her tower. “Of course.” 

He looked around, trying not to be obvious, but not wanting anyone to overhear their conversation. Her eyebrows raised as she saw what he was doing.

“I could use a breath of fresh air. Perhaps you’d care to join me on the balcony?”

Relieved, he nodded, and followed her as she led the way.

Once they were outside, the door closed behind him, he took a deep breath. “I don’t want to alarm anyone, but it seems our Inquisitor is … missing.”

“Missing?” she exclaimed, then caught herself. “Why do you think he is missing?” 

“He wasn’t in his bed this morning.” Leliana’s eyebrows shot up and he hastened to add. “He’s been having nightmares. I stopped in on him last night and found him half-asleep in a chair in front of his fireplace. I made sure he went to bed, but when went to go check on him again early this morning, he wasn’t in his rooms. I haven’t wanted to make too many inquiries, because I don’t want any rumors to start. But I’ve verified that Varric, Dorian, Solas, and Josephine haven’t seen him today. Normally he’d have visited with at least two of them by this time of the day.” He paused, running a hand through his hair, a nervous habit he knew he shouldn’t allow. “I’m worried. He hasn’t quite been himself, since, well, you know.”

Leliana was thinking furiously, he could tell. “I’ll put a few people on it discreetly, and let you know what we discover.”

“That’s good. I’ll, er, I’ll be in my office.”

He couldn’t concentrate afterwards and ended up shuffling papers around his desk for the next several hours, managing to look busy, look like everything was normal as reports came in. It took all his concentration to attend to the few details that he couldn’t put off, and when Scout Cillian slipped in, closing the door behind him, he almost pounced on the man demanding news before catching himself. 

“Did Leliana send you?” he asked, trying to be noncommittal in case this had nothing to do with the Inquisitor’s absence.

“Indeed, Commander. We’ve found something she’d like you to take a look at.” The elf looked grim.

“Serious?” he asked.

“It may be. We don’t know for sure.”

“Very well, lead the way.”

He followed the elf down from the battlements and through the courtyard, down the stairs and through the doors that led him to the cavern under Skyhold where the river that ran under the keep poured out and down the side of the cliff. Leliana was there with another of her scouts, crouched at the cavern’s edge. When she heard them approach she stood.

“Commander, we may have had an unauthorized visitor.” She pointed, and when he looked he could see a climbing rope had been secured to a metal ring in the stone, dropping down over the edge. Looking down, he swallowed and stepped back, dizzy.

“That’s quite a climb. Why would someone go out this way instead of through the gates, if they managed to get in that way?” There wasn’t any easy way to the roads that led to Skyhold from this side of the keep.

“There’s someone down there!” Cillian called out, pointing. 

They all crowded towards the edge, and there was indeed someone scrambling across the rocks towards the keep. 

“That’s him! The Inquisitor!” Cullen exclaimed. “He looks hurt.” The distant figure was limping, and held one arm close to his body. The words had barely left his mouth when Cillian dropped over the edge, letting himself down hand over hand. As soon as his feet touched ground the other scout followed suit. The two of them scrambled over the rocks to reach Pietro, and there was a pause, then Cillian slung an arm over his shoulder, helping Pietro along, while the other scout ran back. 

They waited impatiently while she scaled the cliff, and she started calling out to them as soon as she was within earshot. “His ankle is twisted, and I think his arm is broken. He’s also chilled to the bone and feverish. It’s a wet ride down, and he’s not dressed for the weather outside the keep.” 

“Did he say what he was doing?” Leliana called down.

“No, ser, he’s not making much sense. Keeps repeating himself. ‘I found it,’ he keeps saying, but won’t say what ‘it’ is.” She reached the edge, and Cullen reached out, grasping her arm, helping her up. The scout was drenched with spray from the waterfall, and her hand was ice cold. “He’s not going to be able to make that climb. We’re going to have to figure out another way to get him back.”

“That’s a lot of rough terrain. I don’t know how feasible it would be to bring him around. Maybe we could rig a stretcher and pull him up?” Cullen suggested. 

The scout shuffled her feet. “Um, I have a suggestion?” 

“Go ahead, Skye,” Leliana encouraged.

“Well, that rope will take a lot of weight, and if you think the anchor will hold, The Iron Bull could carry him up.”

They considered. The ring looked secure, untouched by time, and there were no cracks in the store around it. 

“That would work, I think.” 

“I can go fetch him, ser!” Skye volunteered, and Leliana thought about it for a moment before she nodded in agreement.

“Even as wet as you are, you’ll be less remarked upon than if the Commander or I went to the tavern at this time of day.”

“If you can, find Stitches too while you’re there?” Cullen suggested. 

“We’ll need blankets and some extra rope,” Leliana added. “I don’t want to trust that the Inquisitor can hold on while Bull brings him up. If Sera is in her rooms, ask her to bring them. People are used to her wandering around with strange things.”

Skye nodded and left, and the two of them waited. Cillian had gotten Pietro to sit and had an arm wrapped around him, although if he’d gotten as wet as Skye he probably wasn’t going to provide much warmth. 

In fairly short order, Bull sauntered in, Stiches at his heels.

“Your woman wasn’t very forthcoming, Leliana. What’s the secret emergency?”

Instead of answering, Leliana pointed. Bull looked down and swore.

“He can’t make it up on his own. We were hoping you could bring him up,” Cullen said.

“Yeah, I can see how you don’t want to make a big deal out of this.” Bull walked over to the ring, wrapped both hands around it and pulled. The leather of his harness creaked as his muscles strained, but the ring didn’t budge. “That’ll hold.” He gave the rope similar treatment, nodding in satisfaction.

Just then Sera slipped in, rope slung around her torso and rolls of blankets tucked under her arms.

“Someone wanna let me in on the big secret now?” she asked as she shoved the blankets at Cullen.

Pointing seemed to be the thing to do. She looked down and swore, louder and longer than Bull had. The Qunari snorted in agreement. 

Cullen handed him one of the blanket rolls. “The scouts say his arm is probably broken.”

“You’ll need to splint it before you bring him up, then,” Stitches said. “Is it a clean break?”

Skye nodded. “Didn’t see any bone sticking out, at least, ser.”

They found a few wood scraps that Stitches deemed “good enough” for a splint, and Bull shoved them into the center of the blankets. 

“If it looks bad when you get down there, give me a thumbs’ down and I’ll follow,” Stitches said. 

Bull nodded as he dropped over the edge. He waved up at them when he reached the ground and then scrambled over the rocks to where Cillian had gotten Pietro to sit. Bull examined Pietro’s arm, then turned and gave them another thumb’s up. As they watched, he splinted the break and then he and Cillian rigged a carry harness out of the blankets. Pietro seemed to struggle briefly at first but they managed to get him into it. 

Bull slipped twice on the climb back up, but caught himself each time. Sera’s swearing grew more creative each time. When his horns cleared the edge Cullen and Leliana each got hands under his arms and helped him heave himself up. They worked together to free Pietro from the sling, and Cullen felt the urge to swear himself when he got a good look at Pietro for the first time. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes glassy, and he could hear the sound of chattering teeth over the rush of the waterfall. Stitches shoved his way forward, poked and prodded at Pietro for a few seconds, and shook his head.

“We need to get him dry and warm, and he needs a healer. Gotta do something about that fever quick.”

“We can’t carry him through the courtyard looking like this.” Cullen hated himself for thinking of the Inquisition’s reputation at a time like this, but rumors had already started circulating about the Inquisitor’s current health and well-being after Adamant. This would worsen them.

“What you need is a distraction, Commander. And I think I’ve got just the thing.” Bull pointed at Skye. “Go tell Krem I said to make them fly. He’ll know what I’m talking about.”

Skye hesitated, looking back and forth between Leliana and Cullen. Cullen shrugged. “We’ve got nothing else at the moment. Go ahead.”

When she raced off, Bull continued. “We’ll still need to clear the main hall. Sera, I know you’ve got something for that.”

Sera laughed, a bit weaker than normal, but the wicked edge was still there. “I can do that, yeah.” She slipped away too. Leliana followed her to the door, leaving it partially open to watch the courtyard.

Stitches had rewrapped Pietro in the blankets while they talked. Pietro didn’t seem to be aware of any of them, or anything going on around him. He just sat quietly next to Bull, clutching a canvas satchel with his good arm. It wasn’t until Stitches tried to free the bag from his grasp that he finally showed some signs of life. He muttered something as he tucked it close to him, but the words were unintelligible.

“Oh, yeah. He’s really attached to that bag. Sorry, forgot to mention that,” Bull said, apologetic.

“Well, you did a good job on the arm, boss, so we’ll let it slide.” Stitches winked.

Pietro seemed to relax a bit at the banter, sagging back against Bull’s side. He let Bull tuck the blankets around him without protest, clutching the bag to his chest.

“Here comes Skye,” Leliana said, and a few moments later the scout slipped in.

“Krem said give him ten minutes.”

“Do we want to know what he’s up to?” Cullen asked.

Bull chuckled. “Remember those stuffed nugs he was making?” Cullen nodded. He’d noticed Krem working on one the other evening in the tavern. He’d had several in a basket at his feet. “Well, the other night after he’d had a few he started adding wings to them and saying how he wanted to see how well they’d fly.”

“How is that going to clear the courtyard, Bull?” Cullen had a feeling he wasn’t going to like the answer.

“Well, he was planning on using one of the trebuchets.”

“WHAT?” 

Cullen would have said more, but Pietro started to laugh. It was barely above a whisper and quickly degenerated into a fit of coughing, but a brief smile crossed his face. That was worth the misuse of Skyhold’s siege weaponry, Cullen decided. 

“Looks like he’s already got people gathering. We should be prepared to move.”

“I got it.” Bull got his arms under Pietro and stood, cradling the smaller man against his chest.

“And here comes Sera,” Leliana said.

“Okay, let’s go.” Cullen led the way. Sure enough, everyone in the courtyard was heading towards the gate, their back to them as they scurried to the steps leading up to the Great Hall. Sera met them a few paces out.

“Gonna want to pinch yer noses when you get up there. Worst has faded already, but it’s still kinda rank.” She giggled at Cullen’s exasperated sigh. “Hey, I just did whatcha told me to! At least it wasn’t bees.” She trailed off as she saw Pietro. “He don’t look good.”

Stitches clapped her on the shoulder. “He’ll be fine, lass. A couple of sessions with a healer and a good sleep and he’ll be out there kicking demon arse again. Don’t you worry.”

They managed to get Pietro up to his rooms with no one the wiser. Leliana slipped away without anyone noticing, showing up with a healer in tow shortly after they’d gotten him settled into bed. 

“Alright everyone, thank you for your help. We’ll take it from here.” Cullen made sure to catch everyone’s eye. “I don’t have to impress upon all of you the need for discretion in this matter, I hope?” He received nods and words of assurance from everyone. “We’ll keep all of you updated as to the Inquisitor’s condition.”

As the group made their way down the stairs he heard Sera’s voice rise above the rest.

“I need a drink after all that, big guy. You game?”

Cullen sympathized. He could use a pint or three himself.

Stitches and the healer had removed the temporary splint from his arm and the healer had cut away his sleeve. There was a soft glow as he bathed the arm with healing energies. 

“It looks like The Iron Bull has set your arm already, Inquisitor. That was good of him.”

Stitches kept cutting Pietro out of his tunic while the healer worked, but when he moved the strap of the satchel Pietro sat upright, pulling his arm out of the healer’s grasp. His eyes, which had been sagging in exhaustion, shot open.

“Easy, Inquisitor. It’s alright. We need to get you out of your wet clothes.” The healer’s tone was soothing but Pietro didn’t relax, and he shot Cullen a pleading look.

“Pietro, let me hold onto that for you. I’ll keep it safe. I promise.” 

Reluctantly Pietro let Cullen slip the strap off his shoulder. The healer and Stitches made fast work of getting him out of the rest of his clothing and managed to get him to take a sleeping draught. As it took effect his face relaxed and Cullen was reminded yet again just how young he was. 

There wasn’t anything he could do but watch so he settled himself in one of the stuffed chairs by the fire place, taking himself out of the way. When he realized he was still clutching the canvas bag, curiosity got the better of him and he lifted the flap to see what was inside that could be so precious to Pietro. He was surprised to find only one thing inside, a metal goblet, enamel chipped and stem bent, as if it had fallen to the rocks from a great height. It wouldn’t stand up anymore so he laid it on its side on the table by the fireplace as he settled in to wait.

**Author's Note:**

> [Here's Pietro](http://thewightknight.tumblr.com/tagged/pietro), for the curious. 
> 
> Feel free to come say hi over on [tumblr](http://thewightknight.tumblr.com/).


End file.
